


irony

by kitchensink (orphan_account)



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Criminal AU, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, this suckz, young!Rick, young!stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kitchensink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i•ron•ic</p><p>adjective</p><p>happening in the opposite way to what is expected</p>
            </blockquote>





	irony

**Author's Note:**

> writers! block! is! killing! me!
> 
> edit: it was supposed to say "in the third month" and not "on the third night." whoops

You meet Rick at a concert, and maybe that would be ironic, but probably not. You've never been good with words or meanings or with anything besides your hands.

You tell him this when he babbles spanish out at you, back behind the portable toilets while one of his friends calls his name.

You say, "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be tellin' you."

And he laughs and replies, "You don't have to tell me anything." 

-

You fuck in the back of your car the first few times. His body is twig-like, knotted with pink and brown and white scars on his sides, his legs, his arms, some even daring to trail up to the tips of his collarbones. When it's over, you touch one on his shoulder.

You say, "Where did this come from?"

And he grunts, pushes a hand into your face and says, "Cállate. Don't ask stupid questions." And he says, "You don't need to know." 

-

You run side-by-side, carrying money in your arms. Rick laughs, whoops at the sky and his voice mixes with the sound of sirens blaring behind you. When you stop, almost a town away, feet sore and legs numb and body tingling because it's cold Rick stuffs your prizes into bags and kisses you three times.

You say, "You did it." 

He slings an arm around your shoulders, yanks you down to his height, breath warm on your neck. And he noses your cheek and says, "We did it, motherfucker!" 

-

You fight a lot. It's late this time, the hotel bed smells like dust, and Rick punches you in the jaw. You could wrap your hands around his neck and snap his bones like a twig, he's so much smaller than you and you want him to break but when you do he makes a sound, like a child hiding from something.

You let him go. He drinks shakily from his flask and spits blood onto the carpet. You wipe the blood off of your cheek and feel guilty. Somewhere outside, police sirens ring out.

You say, "I'm sorry." 

He says, "Let's go."

-

You steal everything you see. Into your pockets, into your shirt, into your bag, into your pants. Money is stuffed up against your thigh. Soaps and smell goods fill up your pockets. Clothing bulges out of your bag. Rick walks tall, drinking from his flask and holding your hand. You are careful to avoid the looks of any officers.

When you unload your haul in the back of your car, parked behind a dumpster and a 7-11, you ask, "Where are we going now?" 

He pulls out a little bag of white powder, flings it your face. It leaves a little residue and he crawls over the crap, in your jammed packed little car, and licks the cocaine off of your cheek. You put a hand on his back.

And he says, "Arriba, bebé. Up, and up, and up." 

-  
You get caught. You knew you would, but it still sucks, and Rick gets away, and you are shoved into the back of a cop car with blood oozing from your nose. You sit through everything and are thrown in jail where you sit to count your sins upon the wall with the knife you found beneath your pillow. 

In the third month, you hear a rock tapping against your wind and when you look, Rick is there, smoking a cigarette and looking put off. He's wearing your jacket. 

You say, "What are you doing? Get out of here." 

He curses at you, throws something up which you catch through the bars and says, "Hurry the fuck up." 

It takes you thirty minutes to cut your way out of prison and sixteen days to stop thanking Rick.

-

He tells you that he slept with someone while you're at a concert. He digs his fingers into your palms, mumbling some half-assed apologies, and you're not angry but you're not happy but you're not sad. Maybe you've come to expect it. He's reckless. 

You ask, "When?" 

And he answers, "Second month you were in the slammer." 

You breathe in, breathe out, "So now what." 

He shrugs, he scratches at your wrists, "She's pregnant." 

You're behind the portable toilets. You're pretty sure there the same ones from almost seven years ago. You can see a blood stain on one.

You break up with Rick at a concert, and maybe that's ironic, but maybe it's not. You're not good with words.


End file.
